


The Sound of Gunfire and Corpses

by TheSilentUnderworld



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2435309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilentUnderworld/pseuds/TheSilentUnderworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew he would never really heal, not after all he had done and seen, but a bandage like Sherlock Holmes couldn't be ignored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night

He was not okay.   
  
He might not ever be okay again, actually.  
  
He hadn’t been okay in a long time.  
  
So he shook, clutching the sheets, his form was lit by little more than the minuscule amount of light leaking in from the moon over London’s busy night.   
  
The terror he was enduring was a mix of the two most terrible experiences in his life.  
  
One part watching soldiers die under his care, so many men and women he saw bleed out because he wasn’t quick enough or choke on their own blood because he couldn’t stop the internal hemorrhaging. He had bad days, and that fact would never, ever leave him no matter how well he hid it.  
  
One part Sherlock Holmes famous fall.  
  
It was an intangible mix playing to the beat of gun fire and corpses hitting the pavement. His own personal hell that ran like a broken record in his head.  
  
It was memories running themselves ragged with their only commonalities being blood and terror and not being able to stop them.  
  
Never able to stop them.  
  
And his body fought it with every ounce of energy an unconscious cadaver could muster.  
  
Sherlock had come back to him, yes, and his war days were behind him, of course.  
  
But scars like his, like John Watson’s, did not heal fast, if they ever could. Scars like this began as memories crammed into the background noise of everyday life and ended as gashes taken out of your personality forever.   
  
John eventually scared himself awake, breathing sharp as he sat up and wiped the sweat from his face.   
  
This had become a nightly ritual, and it was wearing him thin.  
  
There was a good deal of silence as he sat there (ignoring the police sirens, but that was London) face covered by his hands, it was a heavy silence that ate more of him away every night.   
  
But weighing it further was the cold, calculating gaze from his door way.  
  
They left as soon, and only as soon as John was surely asleep.


	2. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's up and Sherlocks worried, but alls well that ends well.

The next morning he found tea already waiting for him, which if he were all there he might have questioned, but he was tired and heavy with every prior nights memories; especially the last’s.

  
“You seem tired.” Sherlock said, sitting down close- but not too close to him.  
  
“Mh, it’s fine.” The response was monotone, lying, of course he wasn’t fine. But everyone always said they were fine, so he would say he was fine too.   
  
“Nightmares?” Sherlock asked in the way he usually did, not a question at all.  
  
“Mhm.”   
  
“May I ask what about?”  
  
There was a less eating silence there, not like the cold, black one of the night before. One where John was trying to determine whether Sherlock already knew and where Sherlock was trying to determine if John had noticed him in his doorway.  
  
“Nothing important.” John finally broke that soft nothing.  
  
“It’s surely important.” Sherlock chose his words carefully, treading to close to what he meant, what he had been meaning to express since his return, would have repercussions. Sometimes John wasn’t as bad at deduction as Sherlock thought, and sometimes, Sherlock remembered that.  
  
“Just Afghanistan.” He did not lie, but he did not tell the whole truth. Which Sherlock would contend was a lie any way.   
  
“Partially, I’m sure.” Sherlock’s stare was just as piercing as John remembered. The man was still the same as the day he jumped, even his all knowing gaze.  
  
“I don’t want to bother you with the details.” He lied, that one was a full blown falsehood. Everyone, deep down, wanted a shoulder to cry on.  
  
But that’s not what Sherlock and Johns relationship was. They were adrenaline junkies, hero and sidekick, explorers on the front.  
  
Not brothers, not lovers or therapist or anyone who listened to anyone’s problems.  
  
But everyone needed someone, and god did they need each other.  
  
“It would never bother me.” Also a lie, but right now it was a meaningful one. Sherlock was so rarely apt enough to know what was polite, but it seemed he was getting better with John. Maybe because he actually cared what John thought.   
  
“Just…” John gathered his words. “The fall.”  
  
“The fall?”  
  
“Your fall.”  
  
“Oh.” Sherlock looked down to the floor as if there was something interesting to be gathered from its observation.  
  
“It’s just. I’m still…”  
  
“Angry? That’s understandable-” Sherlock was cut off.  
  
“No, no-” And in turn John was cut off too.  
  
“Disappointed?” An even more dreadful possibility than angry to Sherlock.  
  
“No Sherlock, nothing like that.”  
  
“What then?”  
  
They shared a more intense silence then, one where gazes were locked.  
  
“I’m afraid to lose you again.”  
  
Sherlock finally let the pieces snap together unlike anything he had ever realized before.  
  
John was not mad, disappointed, annoyed, disdainful, or anything else Sherlock could possibly have deduced.  
  
He was scared to lose him.  
  
Oh, how caring was not an advantage.  
  
Oh, how Sherlock Holmes didn’t care as he hugged John Watson finally realizing just how much he really  _did_ care for the man.  
  
Or when he kissed him, he didn’t care then either.  
  
That one might have been the adrenaline. Sherlock opened his mouth and tried to back away, almost terrified at his own oh-so-human action. He cared now, cared so much that his face flushed and words faltered.   
  
But John wouldn’t allow him to leave in that moment. No, no, not now. He smashed their lips together, teeth hitting teeth, lips being caught in the crossfire. Rough and bruising and he needed this like Sherlock needed a smoke.

He needed to know the machine of a man he had given his loyalty, trust, and dare he say… love to,  was real and could be touched and kissed and felt.  
  
When he drew away Sherlock looked like he did when he didn’t understand why someone was offended at his blatant, yet true, statements.   
  
Absolutely. Downright. Confused.   
  
“I. I. John I-” he tried to speak again.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes I am going to play out every dirty scenario I’ve made in my head with you and oh, Sherlock you don’t think I’m creative, but you’ve never seen me in action.” John nearly growled into his wide eyed detectives ear.  
  
“Oh?” Sherlock managed to choke out through the rising anxiety and biting butterflies. No, no, that’s childish. The butterflies were nerves in his chest going absolutely mental at the possibilities of great gain and great loss in front of him, and he knew that.  
  
He could gain love and thrill and so many absolutely incredible things here, things he didn’t think he could have.  
  
But he could also gain them only to lose. To take the drug knowing you may be forced to go through withdraw.   
  
To take the risk and love and lose, or to stay safe and never have loved at all.  
  
“My first though, the moment I laid eyes on you was ‘he would look amazing, just gorgeous squirming and panting and just begging, absolutely begging for my prick.’ I can make you like that Sherlock, I can make you _beg._ ”  
  
Sherlock always was a risk taker.  
  
“I’ll take that as a-” Sherlock almost said bet. Almost. “Promise.”  
  
And the way John ground up against him- that was more than any words could have done to make that a promise. The way John’s hands were up Sherlock’s shirt and mouth on his neck expressed more than any possible amount of words could.

To anyone else, Sherlock would have kicked them off, found a weapon, and held it to them until Lestrade could make them legally suffer for sexual assault. Sherlock was not sexual. Not by any means. But John just  _got him this way._

Maybe it was how, until this moment, he had known John was an unattainable prize. Maybe it was the deep and wonderful connection he and John, only John, had made.

Maybe it was the hands sliding his pants down.

Sherlock couldn’t determine, he was too busy dealing with the new, yet familiar feelings. It was like being high, but a mellow high. Comforting and happy and safe. And he basked in the feeling, especially as the hand on his cock threw that feeling onto a whole new plain of existence.

"John-" He said quickly, a plea, a moan, and the only thing his mind could blurt out as lips wrapped around his cock.

Johns response was an “Mmm~?” And a dip down. Hand’s found his hair in visceral reaction, and the always- well, usually composed Sherlock completely unwound. Unwound in the way no more than John would ever, could ever see. Not only the half lidded eyes and red face, but the way he was exposed and vulnerable.  _Vulnerable_. Sherlock Holmes.

It didn’t take Sherlock too long to cum, the way johns hands had slid up his sides in the beginning could have made him cum all on its own, but god did he make a show of it. “John- I- Please” He was cut short, eyes rolling back and looking to anything, imaginary concepts such as heaven included, for the answer to how he had never experienced a high so good as this. His lips parted and breath hitched, hands grasped and hips bucked. And when it was over, for once, even the simplistic things that had been going on in his mind left him.

There was little more than three words left in that expansive mind palace of his.

'Love John Watson.'

He let himself be blank and calm, a sort of comfortable break he never knew he never knew, before a pressure landed on his chest, in the exact size and shape of a certain veteran.

"Told you you’d beg." He said after a pronounced gulp.

"Did you just swallow that?" Sherlock rebottled, or, no. Said softly, and with less disgust than he normally would.

"Shut up Sherlock." John grinned smally as he rested his head on Sherlock’s chest. "Let’s take a nap."

And John could have sworn all his lost time was made up there, right there, pressed close to the only man he had ever loved. He had never slept so well.

No, he hadn’t been ok in a long time.

No, he might never heal all the way, actually.

But now, warm and happy, just now; he was ok.


End file.
